


Sing For Your Supper

by akire_yta



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My Marthathon response, for <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a href="http://lozenger8.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://lozenger8.livejournal.com/"></a><b>lozenger8</b>, who requested:</p><p>1. Martha having an unexpected expertise which surprises Ten momentarily.<br/>2. Silly clothing/costume mix-ups and match-ups at some point in Martha's life -<br/>involving the Doctor or not, I don't mind.<br/>3. Mystery solving using medical stuff!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing For Your Supper

**Author's Note:**

> written before we ever saw Martha on screen :)

**1\. Martha having an unexpected expertise which surprises Ten momentarily.**

“Oh.”

Martha had been travelling with the Doctor just long enough to know that “Oh” was often the only warning she had before she was running. “What ‘oh’ this time?” she asked wearily.

The Doctor eyed her, looking a little offended at her tone. “This time?” His head tilted slightly as he thought, and to Martha’s jaundiced eye, he looked like nothing so much as her mother’s dog before it begged for forgiveness for making a mess. She wasn’t disappointed. “But we did have fun, yes? Lots and lots of fun!”

Martha’s gaze flicked from the ruins of the, admittedly excellent, dinner, up to the glowering Majodomo, and back to the Doctor. “Can’t pay the bill?” she asked, acid sweet. “Do they take Visa?”

The Doctor’s eyebrows danced up and down as he shared the private joke. “If we used that, they’d probably start getting junk mail, and it would be the end of civilization in these parts. No, I think…” his eyes trailed speculatively down her body and ended at her feet.

Martha dragged them under the table. “No, no running. I’ve just had four delicious courses. I’m not running anywhere.”

The Doctor sat back, his entire body posing a challenge. “What then, Doctor Martha Jones?”

Oh oh. Full name, _plus_ title. He was cranky. “Dishes?” she hazarded, stalling for time.

“Completely automated.”

“Oh.” Martha looked around wildly, and saw something familiar lurking in the shadows of the little stage in the corner. “How about entertainment?” She lifted her chin and eyed off the Majordomo, who had no doubt heard every word of their conversation. “Singing for our supper acceptable, mate?” Barely waiting for his miniscule, grudging nod, she pushed herself to her feet and sauntered over and up onto the stage. Sitting on the bench seat brought back a flood of memories of Mrs Crabtree, and long afternoons stuck inside learning scales.

Her fingers danced up and down the keys, limbering up, testing the notes. “It _is_ a piano. Here?”

The Doctor shrugged as he sat on the bench beside her. “When you lot spread out into the galaxy, you have the good sense to bring the music and leave the credit cards behind.” He pressed a single finger onto a key and grinned at the flat note it produced.

Martha sighed indulgently and batted his fingers away. “Hum the chorus or something?” She’d heard him singing, once, when he was tinkering with the TARDIS.

It wasn’t a noise she’d care to hear again.

The Doctor took the rebuke with grace, waving her on. “Take it away, Maestro.”

Martha let her fingers dance over the keys, pleased at how easy it came back to her. The Doctor pushed what she assumed was a microphone closer to her mouth, so Martha winked at him and leaned in slightly. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome here tonight. I’d like to get things started with one of my own personal favourites from Mr Elton John…”

Three hours later, the two Doctors staggered out onto the walkway outside the restaurant , the Doctor almost crowing in delight as Martha rubbed tired fingers. “Doctor Martha Jones, piano virtuoso.”

She shook her head in amused denial. “Nowhere near. I don’t practice enough for a start.”

The Doctor wrapped his hands around hers and began smoothly and rhythmically stroking her fingers, tugging out the stiffness. “You know, I think there’s a music room somewhere in the TARDIS, yeah?”

“Yeah?” She nodded. “Sounds fun.” She tilted her own head in unconscious mimicry of his earlier gesture. “Does that mean I get to hear you blow your own horn?”

The Doctor laughed delightedly and let her hand go. “Just for that, we’re getting icecream and-“ he poked her bag, which jingled with small change, all tips from her impromptu performance. “You’re buying.”

Side by side, they strolled on into the alien city.

Three months later, the Majordomo still couldn’t stop himself humming that damn tune.


End file.
